


Absolute Apollo

by Brieface, tangofox



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, but based loosely (read - pretty heavily), not exactly a crossover, on the plot of Absolute Boyfriend/ Zettai Kareshi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-06
Updated: 2014-09-06
Packaged: 2018-02-16 09:59:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2265462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brieface/pseuds/Brieface, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tangofox/pseuds/tangofox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jehan was always trying to help. That's what they did - they helped each other. Through the depression, through the addictions, through the loneliness and awful decisions. Grantaire just never quiet expected him to help by mail ordering him an android boyfriend on a drunken whim.</p><p>So when a large case from "Kronos Industries" shows up outside his door he does what any sane person with no idea what's happening would do.</p><p>He takes it into his apartment, drinks with it, and talks to it for several days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Absolute Apollo

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not even sure how this happened. But it did.
> 
> Hope you enjoy it, though!

He woke like he slept - all heavy limbs and shrouded in darkness and the feeling that time had barely passed at all between one misery and the next. A low, dull throb pulsed painfully behind his brow, keeping time with the staccato beat of his alcohol-sodden heart. Each pump of blood through muscle came at the tax of a strike of pain, the payment owed for a night - like many other nights - of alcohol and melancholy. 

A low groan rumbled through his chest, the only indication he would make all day that he suffered from the after effect of overindulgence, and he rose up to prop himself on his elbows. The movement sent a cascade of empty bottles to the edge of the mattress, each slowly tipping over the edge to close the small distance between the floor-ridden mattress and the carpet beneath it. 

Groggy blue eyes peered, unfocused, past a mop of dark, disarrayed curls at the green numbers of the digital clock upside down on his bed. He fought hard to register the numbers for a full minute - if the flicker of movement in the hazy shapes was any indication - before giving up and rolling off the mattress. 

The short drop to the floor gave Grantaire enough time to remember how pathetic he  _wasn't_  going to be today and he landed heavily on all fours. Not poised like a hunting feline, but flat palmed and heavy as he struggled to make it upright.

Along the way he stepped carelessly on countless half-abandoned sketches and doodles, even managing to crush a pastel beneath his heel and smear bright red pigment across both his art and his carpet. He didn't bat an eye. 

It wasn't like he was ever going to get his deposit back anyway.

Stumbling his way through the cold, dismal corridor of his shoebox apartment, Grantaire managed to pour coffee grounds both into his coffee machine and along most of his counter and floor before setting the machine to brewing with a flick of a button.

It spluttered at him angrily, hissing, and he went to talk it down from its tantrum when he noticed it wasn't pouring water through the grounds like it should. 

Shuffling over, he lifted the lid and saw that the water compartment was empty. A series of low, rough swears fell rapidly from his lips as he yanked the compartment free and angrily stuffed it under the flow of city water from his tap.

With the temperamental machine dealt with, he set it to going again with a reassuring pat and  made his way to his bathroom to scrape futilely at the scruff on his neck and chin and relieve his bladder of its nightly burden.

The face that met him in the mirror was not attractive. It held far too many dark hairs, had blunt, strange angles, tired, sunken eyes and was framed by a mop of unruly, wild hair.

Pursing his lips, Grantaire decided suddenly and finitely that looking at it would never really improve the visage that gazed back at him and set to work running his old razor under the water to prepare for shaving.

A short run of shaving cream and haphazard scraping later, R emerged from the bathroom to the sharp, sweet scent of hot coffee and snatched his mug from the day before from the table in his 'living room'. 

At the counter he piled into the cup all the things that made his brew perfect: a spoon full of sugar with a splash of cream for the bitterness in his coffee and a healthy splash of whiskey for the bitterness in his soul. 

He padded on bare feet to the living room - a small area that connected directly to the kitchen and held little more than a pile of pillows, cushions and blankets that formed a sort of nest in front of the small television he'd inherited from Jehan. Flicking the gray, energy efficient television screen to life, he crossed the room and settled into his nest. Here, he could take the time to awaken fully to greet the day with all the bitter cynicism and cruel humour it deserved. 

He'd taken a single sip, sighing in relief at the rich taste that rolled over his tongue, when the need to retrieve the paper - as was his wont each morning - overwhelmed him. The day hadn't really begun until he read the news with his coffee and scoffed at the terrible, unsalvageable state of the world .

Grantaire let out a quiet, disappointed groan and set the mug aside. Abandoning the comfort and familiar smells of the nest around him, he struggled to his feet and padded across the scratchy carpet to the door.

A door lock, a dead bolt, and a chain later, he tugged the door open and stepped out, half dressed, to retrieve the rolled up paper from his faded welcome matt. There was no one around in the dark hallways to see his paint stained skin, his worn white t-shirt and faded blue boxers. Few people outside of a mad drunkard would deign to live in such conditions and neighbours were scarce, if there at all. How fortunate for his landlord that he was the perfect mad drunkard to suit the building's unique needs.

There was never anything in these halls worth noting. The sun-faded, yellowing wallpaper that peeled from the corners and along seams was unremarkable, the cheap synthetic carpet covered in stains that stretched over the floor a worthy companion for such unsightly décor. Which is why, when he stepped out to acquire his paper, Grantaire immediately took notice of the large, oddly shaped box that was propped against his wall.

Weary eyes stared at it for a full minute, unblinking, before twisting away to scan the corridor. Maybe someone was moving in?

He looked back to the box, well-trained eyes wandering appreciatively along the glossy black surface, caressing the smooth, soft shape of its curves and flickering in wonder at the stamped silver lettering along the front.

A flash of white – stark against the dark surface of the box – drew his gaze and he leaned down to squint at it.

‘ _R. A. Grantaire_ ’ it read, in clean, blocky letters.

An envelope.

Reaching out with an unsteady – always unsteady, always shaking – hand, Grantaire gripped the thick parchment and pulled it away from the box. It released itself with little resistance, leaving no residue on the glossed surface of whatever had been used to hold it in place.

He fumbled with the seal on the envelope for a moment, tearing the thick white paper slightly in the process. Inside, a neatly folded sheet of crisp paper proceeded to congratulate him on the purchase of the Model 01795 Android Series Apollo. It invited him to contact the company should he have any complaints and wished him all the best with his new companion. At the bottom it kindly informed him that he would find an operation manual inside the shipping capsule and cautioned him that he should read it carefully before ‘activating his Apollo’.

By the time he reached the end of the short letter his dark brows had descended so fully over his eyes that he struggled to see past them.

_‘Model… Android… What?’_

He looked around the corridor again, even walking to both ends of the dank building just to see if someone was waiting to leap out and tell him it was a joke and he should just _see_ his face right now.

His footsteps echoed as hollow as his rapidly waning patience with each corner he turned and found bare of life.

When no answer leapt from the shadows of his apartment complex he gave up, shrugging and made his way back to his apartment. Without missing a beat he strode right past the glossy black box and through the open doorway.

The peeling brown door marked with the faint outline of the number 3 (from before it had been stolen) snapped shut with a dull thud and didn't open again for four hours.

In the interim, Grantaire finished his first cup of coffee and two more with it - made the same as his first - before he began drinking in earnest. Two bottles of wine and an aborted attempt at a sketch of his own hand later, his body was languid and his mind pleasantly hazy.

Unfocused eyes stared out the doorway when it finally re-opened, roaming searchingly over the once pristine surface of the – what was it?- ‘shipping capsule’ that was slowly collecting specks of dust from the filthy air around it.

It almost seemed a shame to leave such a beautiful container outside, alone and slowly being corrupted by the harsh Parisian environment it had been introduced to from whatever factory had made it.

Reaching out, Grantaire slid a heavy hand along the side nearest to him, dragging the dust that had settled there away with a small squeaking sound. The surface was almost frictionless beneath his palm, and curiously warm in defiance of the frigidity of the air around it.

His thumb, unthinkingly, brushed small patterns against its seam, thumbnail occasionally dipping into it as if trying to wedge it, ever so slightly, apart.

_‘Oh, hell.’_

Six minutes and more struggling than he cared to mention later, Grantaire slumped against the case where it rested in its new home atop his stained carpet, breathing heavy and sticky with perspiration.

He stared at the case, running his hands along the lettering on its front and relishing the contrast between his sallow skin and the inky blackness of the surface it caressed.

There, resting against the case, he consumed a further half a bottle of wine and more small glasses of sickly sweet curacao than he cared to keep track of. Later, he would blame this for the way his long fingers idly traced patterns and pictures – entire landscapes – lovingly into the casing..

Some two hours into this, he began speaking to the mysterious box, conversing with it like it was an old friend. He spoke of philosophy and art, the state of the world and how little hope he held in its ability to ever improve in his life time. He constructed counter-arguments to his points and passionately tore them to the ground. His voice was eager and earnest and carried with it all of the tones and inflections insecurity had him withhold from others.

In that time, the case became something akin to a friend.

He began calling it Apollo – after its model name – around his fourth bottle of the day, speaking to it from the bathroom as he relieved himself, from the kitchen as he popped a few pieces of cheese into his mouth and called it dinner, and from his nest where he playfully threw pillows at it and laughed at what he saw on TV.

Apollo was there the next morning, waiting for him, and he greeted it with a yawn and a redundant question about how it had rested while he shuffled about making his morning coffee.

He read to it, quietly and with frequent commentary at each new paragraph, an almost empty bottle of wine clutched in one hand and an open bottle of vodka tucked between his legs. He told Apollo about the morning paper – even made a joke about how disappointed he was that it didn't come with a new friend today – and showed it pictures from the political cartoon sections.

In his head, Apollo laughed quietly at some, hummed thoughtfully at others, and scoffed disapprovingly at the rest.

He sketched in the bright light of the bay window – the reason he had rented this apartment in the first place – people and places, hands and lips, smiles and tears. He even sketched the sleek lines of his Apollo, replacing the bold ‘Kronos Industries’ along the front with the word Apollo in a similar font.

By the time the light had faded, he was well past pleasantly drunk and fast on his way to a rough derailment into properly shit faced.

Sometime around midnight, Grantaire surged to his feet, staggering and stumbling over the blankets and pillow of his nest until he tipped forwards and smashed into the case he had been aiming for.

He didn't feel the impact at all, though his lip slowly dripped out pearls of blood from where his teeth had cut into it.

Laughing, Grantaire struggled to his knees, bracing himself along Apollo’s exterior and waiting until the room stopped tipping to drag his sketch book over and show the sketch he’d done of Apollo to the silent case.

“Look, it’s you,” he explained, holding the sketchbook as still as he could despite his shaking hands. “I even – I even –“ he released his bottle to reach up and point at lettering on the front, dropping the sketchbook in the process. “Sorry,” he apologised sheepishly, picking the book back up. “Do you see? I even put your name on it!” A blue and yellow stained finger pointed in the general direction of the centre of the page, refusing to touch it again lest he send the pages crashing to the ground once more.

“Hold on.” He crawled half way across the floor, laughing each time the world pitched around him and he fell to one side, until he could grip a bottle and drag it back to the case. “I want – I want to draw you again, Apollo, but this time –“ a sly smile curled around his lips and he lowered his gaze into a sultry, half-lidded smoulder that lost a lot of its appeal beneath his rapidly wiggling eyebrows. “This time I’m gonna draw you _nude._ ”

He reached out a hand, placating, and patted the surface. “Now, I know what you’re thinking, Apollo. We've just met, and this is all very sudden, but I can assure you that I do this all the time. I’m an artist, you know.” The declaration was punctuated by a sloppy gesture to himself and a confident smile.

“Now, I’m just gonna… get a little peek of what you’ve got going on here, don’t worry, it’s strictly professional –“ as he spoke, his hand glided to the small release button he’d found when he’d first brought Apollo in and he caressed it gently.

“Ready?” he asked, sucking in a small breath himself. A pause – a small beat – and his finger pressed the button.

Immediately a small hiss sounded and the case cracked like hydraulics suddenly releasing pressure. Wide eyed, Grantaire scooted back as a puff of what looked like steam poured out of the cracks of Apollo, warming the air around him.

Suddenly alert, despite the room continuing to tilt around him, Grantaire slid to his knees, steadied himself with his arms briefly, and reached out.

Trembling fingers drifted into the parting of the case, meeting with something soft and rubbery, and he slowly, reverently, lifted the lid.

Another low hiss and the bulky, glossed lid opened easily at his light touch.

There was a releasing of the last bit of warm air in a great cloud from the box and when it cleared –

“ _Apollo?_ ” The word came out in a gasp, the speaker of the name making loud scrambling sounds as he clawed his way back on his hands and feet with awkward, dizzying movements.

He took great, gulping breaths, chest heaving and blue eyes wild with shock and fear as he stared, unblinking, into the open case.

It was a long, tense moment, filled with all the things he couldn’t possibly voice aloud or even in the sanctuary of his own mind, before he was able to right himself again.

Slowly, silently, he made himself move. One small shift of muscle at a time, he made it to his hands and knees and crawled with unstead, jerky movements to kneel at the edge of the case.

His breath came in short, soft puffs past his lips and he let his eyes study what lay beneath the surface of his shiny friend.

Inside the case, clear of steam and cover, a god lay sleeping.

All at once, Grantaire understood why he – for it was certainly a _he_ inside the case – was called Apollo.

Flawless skin, golden and unblemished stretched tight over bone and sinew of the most perfect creature he had ever lay eyes on. Sharp, but subtle muscles could be glimpsed from the side of the curled figure, shapely legs and wide shoulders curling inwards and locking him into the foetal position. The body was topped off with a beautiful mop of golden blond curls, so light and shining that no name but Apollo, Adonis, Achilles, _God_ , could ever suit him.

Impulsively, Grantaire found a hand millimetres away from brushing back a curl that had fallen into Apollo’s eyes and draped itself across his cheek when his periphery caught sight of a large, flat book tucked against Apollo’s body in the loose grip of his arms.

His hand jerked back before ever making contact and descended instead upon the dark book. He pulled out carefully, refusing to disturb his Apollo – his _android_ – with its removal.

He flipped it open and began reading, but found himself sorely disappointed in what was inside.

It was a simple list of things to remember.

  *          Your android is self-sustaining and can stay charged and active with regular exposure to sunlight.
  *          Your android does not need to eat or drink but is accomplished in the culinary arts and is made to remember - forever - any allergies you listed when applying for him/her.
  *          Your android will never harm you and is a recreational appliance built solely for your pleasure and delight.
  *          Your android learns and will adapt to every new situation you put him/her in with little time.
  *          Maintain your android by providing regular check-ups with a friendly Kronos Industries certified technician.
  *          To activate your android for the first time, press a gentle kiss to his/her lips.
  *          Enjoy!



The last words stared at him, accompanied by a small printed pink heart that sickened him to his very core. So cute and sweet, that heart, that told him to lean in and sully the face of this Adonis with his disgusting, alcohol covered, blood caked lips.

Grantaire tossed the book aside and rocked back on his heels. His face came down to bury itself in his hands and he spent a long, tense half hour arguing with himself so ferociously that a headache that had nothing to do with the liquor he had consumed began throbbing behind his left temple.

Reaching out, Grantaire drew a long, burning pull from his white liquor.

He had never felt so sober.

Wiping his lips with the back of his hand, he set the bottle aside and settled firmly in front of the open case.

Apollo rested, unperturbed by the dilemma crashing loudly through Grantaire’s head in his slumber. So peaceful. So still.

“So beautiful,” he breathed. "Sorry it has to be me, Apollo."

Still, his eyes narrowed, lit with a determined fire that burned hot and wild low in his stomach. Now. Now was the time to do this or surely he never would – never would think again to stain the perfect lips of his Apollo with such poor tribute.

Sucking in a small, shaky breath, Grantaire closed the distance between them with slow, measured movements until his trembling lips pressed against Apollo’s still ones.

 


End file.
